A Good Man's Friend
by Eideann
Summary: Sequel to The Great Game. Another one. I won't declare myself awesome as my good friend has, but I do invite you to read. Being Sherlock's friend can be hazardous to one's health. Being his closest friend can be downright terminally dangerous.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's note: For those of you who do not know, my beta, Catslynw, and I are roommates. I'd say flatmates, but we live in a house and, well, we're Americans. To the point, we share a mutual acquaintance, a fair and interesting young lady who was so kind as to introduce us to the fandom of Sherlock. She pushed, we caved, and now we're both hooked. Worse, we were both inspired with far too many ideas for Sherlock fanfic to be contained by our poor, long-suffering brains. Something had to give. Without consulting one another, we both began stories which could be considered tags to The Great Game on the same morning, at roughly the same hour, while located 40.41 miles apart in separate cities. That's 65.0 kilometres for you Brits. Both our stories begin in the hospital, with the same characters in attendance and have extremely similar themes. No one who knows us well would be surprised. The only thing we really argue about in the fandom is which one of us is Holmes and which is Watson. We have yet to reach an agreement. At the moment we are leaning toward her identity as the more socially ept Watson, and mine as the more pedantic Holmes. I sometimes lack a real world interface. *ahem* Anyway, read and enjoy. If you are Calliope, read, enjoy and then call after you have read __both__ stories! *We didn't warn her we had written these, let alone posted them. We expect squeeing in the near future.* Also, dear readers, we both positively thrive on reviews, and we are highly competitive, so please read and review both our stories, or there may be bloodshed… ours, not yours. Sincerely, your devoted new author, Eideann. _

_P.S. Castlynw's story is entitled, "Defining Friendship."_

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Mycroft had made a severe miscalculation, one which had nearly proven lethal, in fact. He was not accustomed to committing such grave errors, and reflecting upon it disturbed him greatly as he stood at the foot of Dr. John Watson's hospital bed. Sherlock was in another room, sedated. Both men had been injured in the explosion, Watson more severely. Sherlock had finally been sedated because of his utter refusal to remain in bed despite doctor's orders. Mycroft had no illusions that anyone or anything would be able to keep his brother in bed for long. It was a pity that they couldn't sedate him for the full length of his recuperation, but for the first few hours at least, sedation was a realistic alternative to allowing him to overstrain himself.

One might reasonably wonder why Mycroft stood in John Watson's room rather than in his brother's. Both men were unconscious, thus neither could profit from his presence, but he might be expected to have a more sincere emotional attachment to his brother. In truth, he did, but he was conscious of a sense of guilt in Watson's case that he did not feel over his brother's injuries. Sherlock had brought his own fate upon himself, not merely because his was the hand that fired the shot to detonate the Semtex vest, but because his own actions and stated ideals had brought him to the attention of any number of violent individuals. For that reason, among others, Mycroft kept his brother under constant surveillance.

Once he had determined that John Watson was a suitable companion for Sherlock, he had naturally extended that surveillance to include the discharged army doctor, however, he had not provided for him the same high level of observation. Unlike Sherlock, Watson did not seem to be hyperactive, nor did he run unpredictably down unexpected shortcuts to reach his destination – except when he was with Sherlock, at which point he fell neatly under Sherlock's surveillance.

His mistake lay in not increasing the security on Watson during this insanity with James Moriarty. The focus seemed so firmly on Sherlock that he had not considered that Watson might need further protection. That someone might regard Watson as a target to affect Sherlock had never occurred to him, certainly not a man such as Moriarty, who seemed to understand Sherlock to so great a degree. That Watson might prove, at this early stage in their association, to be a target that _would _affect his brother would never have occurred to him.

He had hoped that associating with Watson would help Sherlock acquire something in the nature of what the Americans called 'people skills'. Mycroft had become aware when his brother was quite young that he did not seem to connect well with others. Partly it was his intellect, and that Mycroft understood completely. His own intellect had set him apart from other boys when he was small, but he had learned to compensate for it. Sherlock had not. Nor, apparently, had he wanted to. He barely seemed to miss the normal friendship connections that boys naturally made with one another at school, and at university he disdained the company of others except when it was forced upon him. Mycroft had never even been certain whether Sherlock's attachment to their mother had been genuinely emotional or more a matter of custom. He had certainly dealt with her death logically and then moved on to the next problem.

Regardless, some bond appeared to have formed between Sherlock and the man who had become his flatmate by happenstance. If Sherlock's determined efforts to escape his own room to check up on the good doctor hadn't provided sufficient hint, the fact that Moriarty had elected to use him as the final hostage in his game gave it away entirely.

Despite the fact that all the principals were unconscious, dead or absconded, Mycroft knew precisely what had taken place in that closed pool prior to the explosion that had brought half the structure down. While Watson had been lost altogether by his security, the man on Sherlock had followed him all the way to the pool and had taken up a perch that permitted him a good view of events, and the listening device had allowed him to hear the conversation. The agent, a most phlegmatic soul, had been astonished to report the sheer emotionality of Sherlock's response to the confrontation with Moriarty.

Most distressing of all was the fact that Jim Moriarty, a man known to none of them personally, had seen what Mycroft had missed. He had recognized the strong attachment that Sherlock had to Watson, and he had used it brutally. An additional security team called by the man on site had arrived just in time to watch the explosion and pry people out of the wreckage.

Watson took in a breath that seemed somehow deeper, and then his eyes opened abruptly. Fairly caught, Mycroft nodded at the man, who blinked at him in puzzlement. "Mycroft, what are you –" He broke off, eyes going wide. "Sherlock!" he exclaimed, trying to sit bolt upright.

Mycroft leaned forward. "Do not attempt to rise, Dr. Watson," he said gently. "Sherlock is very well, indeed, in another room."

Watson relaxed again, nodding. His eyes seemed somewhat vague, but Mycroft knew that he was on powerful opiates, so he hardly found that surprising. They sharpened, though, gazing at him. "Why are you here?"

Having Watson ask the question Mycroft had posited as a reasonable one made him doubt his own answer. Disregarding that, he gave a slight shrug. "I was concerned about your well-being. You were more severely injured than Sherlock."

Watson squeezed his eyes shut and then looked at Mycroft again, as though attempting to force him to make sense. "Am I? Oh. That doesn't really explain why you're here with me and not with your brother."

"Sherlock regained consciousness some hours ago. He is well aware of your condition, but I wished to be present to reassure you of his."

"Where is he?"

"In another room, sedated."

Watson's eyes widened, looking at something behind him, so Mycroft was prepared when he heard the voice. "Oh, am I sedated? I hadn't noticed."

Mycroft grimaced. "You are supposed to be in bed," he said without turning around.

"I am _supposed _to be resting," Sherlock replied, shuffling forward and sitting in the chair beside Watson's bed. "I can rest here quite well."

"You have stitches on the backs of your legs, Sherlock, you're supposed to be resting on your front."

"I thought that was what morphine was for," Sherlock replied insouciantly.

"Are you twins?" Watson asked, and the question made both of the Holmes brothers turn to look at him in surprise at the non sequitur.

"Are Sherlock and I twins?" Mycroft asked, truly astonished by the question. It seemed a peculiar one to ask at all, much less at a time like this.

"No, you . . . are there two of . . . actually, since you're overlapping, I doubt it somehow." Watson sighed. "I think I should probably go back to sleep."

"Probably," Mycroft said with a nod. "You'll be fine, Dr. Watson."

Watson drifted off again, and Mycroft turned towards his brother. "You should be in bed," he said astringently.

"Why are you in here?" Sherlock asked. "It makes no sense, and the reasons you gave him were specious at best. If he weren't doped silly, even he would have seen through them."

"Is there anything I can say to persuade you to return to your bed?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I don't think so," he replied, and Mycroft let out an irritated sigh. "Do you think you have enough people out there pretending to be sisters and the like?" Sherlock asked.

"Maybe," Mycroft allowed.

"It looks as though you were expecting a prolonged siege."

"Moriarty has not been found," Mycroft replied.

Sherlock sat forward urgently. "You said –"

Mycroft held up a cautioning hand. "I said the debris had not all been sorted, but that there were bodies in the wreckage. The conclusions you drew are not my responsibility." Though he had counted on the effects of drugs and pain to dull his brother's wit.

Sherlock glowered at him. "Whose were the bodies, then?"

"Given the rifles found near them, I'd hazard a guess they were some of the snipers you mentioned."

"Damn!" From his expression and the way he was looking at the man in the bed, the only thing keeping Sherlock from jumping up and striding out of the room to carry on his investigation was his attachment to John Watson. "I told you that setting idiots to watch me would be useless. Always there when they're not wanted, snitching to you about my least activities, but entirely incapable of behaving in a useful fashion when they're needed."

"Dr. Watson would have spent a good deal more time under bits of wreckage if they hadn't acted as they did," Mycroft pointed out. "As would you."

"We would both have survived a few more minutes buried," Sherlock retorted. "We may not both survive another encounter with Moriarty."

"I think you downplay your talents – and his – too much."

"I didn't say either of us would die for certain, just that it might happen."

"I have very good men searching for him now."

"Are they the same very good men who let him get away in the first place?"

"If you hadn't decided to take matters into your own hands, the situation wouldn't have arisen."

"You don't know that. I may have simply moved things forward more swiftly. Do we know when exactly John was taken?"

"I know when his security detail lost track of him," Mycroft said with precision. "We haven't been able to ask Dr. Watson for his version of events, so we don't yet know when he was actually taken, only that it was sometime after 2:30 and before midnight."

"Rather a large time period." Mycroft shrugged. "Why don't you go?"

"Go where?"

"Away. What can possibly be keeping you here?"

"Not your scintillating company, certainly," Mycroft replied.

"I'm not supposed to be here."

"No, you're meant to be in bed, resting."

"I'm fine."

"You are not fine. If you were fine, the doctors wouldn't have ordered bed rest."

"Do you honestly expect me to believe that if you had told them to, the doctors wouldn't have ordered bed rest whether I needed it or not?"

"Out." The voice was weary beyond words and called the attention of both the brothers again.

"What?" Sherlock said, sounding startled and upset as he looked down at his flatmate.

"Out, both of you," Watson said. Giving Mycroft's brother an exasperated look, he added, "Sherlock, go to bed." The tone and the expression seemed to tame Sherlock's dismay, though they did not appear to reconcile him to leaving. Watson turned towards Mycroft. "And you – go run something. I'm trying to sleep. Text Not-Anthea and I'm sure she'll send a car."

Mycroft stared at him. "Not who?"

"Not-Anthea," Sherlock informed him with a mischievous grin. "Your PDA." Watson nodded with a slight smile, closing his eyes.

"You mean my PA," Mycroft corrected. Where had the name Anthea come from?

"Same thing the way you do it," Sherlock said dismissively. Again, Watson smiled and nodded. Mycroft was finding this a bit unnerving. Sherlock had never joined with anyone to mock him before.

"Now, both of you, go," Watson repeated. Giving Sherlock a stern look, he said, "Doctors are notoriously harder to deal with if you don't follow their orders."

"Well, if you put it like that," Sherlock replied, settling in. "I'll stay right here."

"No, you won't," Mycroft retorted. "I'll fetch some of my idiots if you try."

Sherlock glowered at him, but at further urging from Watson, he rose and left the room with Mycroft. Once the door was closed, Sherlock turned towards him and said, "Make sure your idiots are paying attention this time."

"Go to bed, Sherlock. I'll check on you both later."

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock returned to his own room. Mycroft paused and gave more stringent orders to the men watching his brother and then left.

* * *

Once the brothers Holmes had taken their show on the road, John lay back with his eyes on the ceiling, evaluating his condition. Right leg in a cast to the knee, what felt like stitches on his left upper thigh, a variety of other, less serious lacerations and abrasions scattered all over his torso and legs, mostly on the front. His vision of overlapping Mycrofts suggested concussion. It was enough to be going on with. All he truly remembered was the concussive sound and a sense of the world coming down on him.

A sister came in to check his vitals and make notes in the computer record. Gone were the days when, if one could finagle a peek at the clipboard, he could determine what course of treatment the doctors had decided on. Nowadays a fellow needed a password to sneak a look at his records. "Hullo," he said warmly to the feminine back.

She turned and smiled down at him. "How are you feeling?" she asked, touching his forehead with the back of her hand.

"Not too bad, now I've got you to look at," he replied with a smile, neglecting to mention the fact that there were, in fact, two of her, shifting back and forth together. Both of them smiled down at him politely. He sighed, and glanced around at the walls. The clock was unreadable at the moment. Too many hands. "What time is it?" he asked.

"Half past one in the afternoon," she said. "You've been out since yesterday evening. Push the button if you need anything."

John nodded. "Thanks." She bustled out again, and John closed his eyes. Somehow, he'd made it through Afghanistan without ever getting blown up, but back home in England, it had taken hardly any time at all. Thoughts like that were not going to help him get to sleep. He opened his eyes, popped on the telly, found something with a lot of dull talking and tuned it low. He finally drifted off to the rise and fall of voices.

* * *

Greg Lestrade paused at the door to room 111 and pushed the door open silently. There was a news programme on, but the volume was turned extremely low. He glanced at the bed and saw that Dr. Watson was sleeping. He withdrew and went on towards room 117, reflecting that John Watson was an interesting man, not least for the effect he seemed to be having on Sherlock Holmes.

Lestrade had known Sherlock for roughly five years, and in all that time, he'd remained essentially the same, distant, arrogant, disdainful. John's appearance on the scene hadn't precisely changed him, but the fact that Sherlock could in fact attract a friend made Lestrade hopeful that he, and not Sally Donovan, was right about Sherlock. Lestrade had actually seen John make Sherlock laugh. His total lack of anything approaching a sense of humor – leaving sarcasm aside – formed one of Donovan's arguments in favor of Sherlock being a psychopathic personality, one crack in the façade away from becoming one of the criminals they hunted. John was well on the way to humanising Sherlock in the minds of many of Lestrade's colleagues, though not in the minds of either Donovan or Anderson, but if they thought he was the only who'd twigged to their affair, they were sadly mistaken.

He pushed the door to room 117 open and found Sherlock pacing. "Aren't you supposed to be in bed?" he asked.

"Aren't you supposed to be finding the madman who did this?" Sherlock snapped back. "Have you seen John?"

"I peeked in on him a moment ago and –"

"Leave him alone for now, he wants sleep."

Lestrade took in a breath and reminded himself that Holmes was undoubtedly in a lot of pain which had most likely shortened his temper. "He was asleep. That's why I'm in here talking to you."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, then nodded. "Right. Of course. What do you want?"

"First, searches are being made on the source of the explosive compound, on tracing the connections of the two dead men and the source for the rifles. I am here, while that is going on, to get a statement from you."

"Children use an inane mnemonic to recall the planets of the solar system and their order," Sherlock said. "Did you know that?"

Lestrade closed his eyes, took another calming breath. "Yes, Sherlock, I did," he said diffidently. He had long ago realized that challenging Sherlock on his non sequiturs simply distracted from the issue at hand, which, he thought, was probably the point. "I need a statement about what happened last night."

"Ask Mycroft's spy," Sherlock said irritably. "I gather he saw and heard everything."

"Mycroft? That would be your brother, right?"

"How many other Mycrofts are you aware of?" Sherlock asked dryly.

Lestrade had to concede the truth of that. "I'm asking you, Sherlock, the world's only consulting detective, because you were there and I want your point of view."

Sherlock turned away sharply and went back to his bed where he settled on his back, looking up at the ceiling, hands clasped behind his head. "I'm not well. Perhaps you shouldn't be questioning me at this time."

"Pardon me?" Lestrade asked. One thing Sherlock never did was admit weakness. Well, Lestrade could recall one occasion, a very recent one in fact.

"Granted. Perhaps you should come back later."

It took Lestrade a moment to recognize that Sherlock was granting him pardon, for what imagined offense, he couldn't fathom. "Why won't you talk to me now?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.

"I really am unwell," Sherlock said with the air of an invalid. "I think I may need one of those orange blankets."

"You're not in shock," Lestrade said, his voice getting a little harsh. He pulled back from that and sat down. "Just tell me what happened. I need to know."

Sherlock pursed his lips and glowered at him. "When Moriarty didn't immediately contact me with his fifth pip, I decided to take the initiative." Lestrade closed his eyes and fought the urge to remonstrate with the impulsive idiot in front of him. How a man could be such a genius and simultaneously such a stupid git was a little difficult for him to understand. "I waited for John to leave the flat, and then I sent a message to Moriarty asking him to meet me at the pool where Carl Powers died."

"You waited for John to leave?"

"I didn't want to endanger him. He'd have insisted on accompanying me." Lestrade raised his eyebrows and Sherlock grimaced. "No, the irony is not lost on me."

"You said he went out. Where was he going?"

"He said he wouldn't be back for tea, that he was seeing Sarah."

"Did he make it that far?"

"How should I know?" Sherlock asked. "This is the first time I've thought of it since John left the flat."

"So no one has asked the question?"

"No." Sherlock reached over and picked up the phone, dialing quickly. Lestrade put out a hand, but then he stopped. It made little difference who called her. "Hello, Sarah, did John come and see you last night?" He paused impatiently, clearly listening to her response. "I see. Thank you." He hung up without another word, and Lestrade sighed. Sherlock didn't merely lack manners, he lacked any grasp at what appropriate manners could achieve. His expression had soured, but that alone didn't tell Lestrade what answer she'd given. Sherlock looked up. "It takes approximately seven minutes to walk from our flat to hers, so it seems likely that John was taken within that seven minutes, which means that I didn't take the initiative, as I'd planned. I simply set the meeting place." The sour look faded, and Sherlock regarded him pensively. "Would you say that I have no heart?"

Lestrade gave him a dour look. "No, you wouldn't be alive without one."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I was speaking metaphorically," he said irritably. Lestrade thought it a fair turnabout, after all, Sherlock took many things far more literally than they were meant, and the delay gave him time to think. It was an unexpected turn for a conversation with Sherlock. With exaggerated patience, Sherlock rephrased his question. "Would you say I lack a _metaphorical _heart?"

"No," Lestrade said contemplatively. "Of course you have a heart. You don't generally put your deeper feelings on display, but I know you have them. You were most certainly distressed when the old woman died." Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "Why do you ask?"

"It appears that the association between John and me is what caused Moriarty to target him as the final pip."

Lestrade stared at him. "That's blindingly obvious. You say it like it's a surprise."

Sherlock's brows drew together. "It was a surprise to me."

Lestrade found himself unsure whether Sherlock was startled that other people could see that he cared about Dr. Watson, or whether he was simply startled by the fact that he did care about the man. He wasn't sure what to say, so he turned the subject. "Do go on. You set the meeting place."

"I set the place and the time," Sherlock corrected, and then his eyes widened. "And if Moriarty took John immediately after he left the flat, that means my time delay caused him to be held longer by the bastard. Who knows what might have happened in that nine hours and forty-three minutes. If I hadn't given in to an idiot bent towards melodrama, it needn't have been –"

"You couldn't have known."

"I should have known," Sherlock retorted. "I should have been able to see in myself what a monster like Moriarty could see in me." He paused, then turned towards Lestrade. "Wait, you claim you saw it before yesterday." There was a faintly accusing air to the remark.

Lestrade shrugged. "I did, Sherlock. I assumed you knew."

Sherlock was silent a long moment, and Lestrade hardly dared think. He knew that look. A tension grew in Sherlock, gradually becoming almost unbearable. Finally, the other man spoke. "I don't understand what's happened, or what I should do about it."

"Do about what?" Lestrade asked, utterly at sea. "Liking John? There's nothing to be done. Unless . . . you two aren't . . . together, are you?" He'd never even wondered about that, not with the way John flirted with every young, attractive woman he saw.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked.

"You know," Lestrade replied, but Sherlock shook his head. "Together. As in a couple."

Sherlock stared at him briefly, then shook his head. "No, of course not, I'm not interested in that sort of thing. It's distracting."

"I see." If it wasn't a sexual relationship Sherlock was talking about, what could it be? "Is this about your not realizing that you and John were friends?"

"I don't know that we are friends even now," Sherlock said sincerely.

Lestrade gaped at him for a moment, then huffed out a laugh that he tried to conceal as a cough. "Sherlock, don't be daft. Even Donovan knows you're friends, and she didn't believe you were capable of making friends." The other man didn't appear convinced, and Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Trust me. I have friends. You and John are friends."

"Fine, whatever. Terminology aside, I couldn't think."

With the emphasis Sherlock put on those final two words, Lestrade finally realized what it was he was going on about. "Yes, I suppose that would be something new to you," he said slowly.

"The moment I saw John, I froze. For a split second, I thought he might be him."

"Him who?" Sherlock didn't speak, but Lestrade put it together abruptly. "The mad bomber? John?"

"He showed up immediately before I first heard the name Moriarty, and it would have been a clever game to play."

"Not John, Sherlock. Never John. He's as honest as the day is long."

"I know that," Sherlock retorted, a bit of anger creeping into his tone. "Do you think I don't know that? Still, in that first few moments, with him talking about what a turn up it was for me, I wondered, but then he opened the coat and showed me the vest. I knew what had happened, I knew he'd been taken by Moriarty, and I didn't feel angry. Anger I would have expected, anger I could have used, but I what I felt was panic. I couldn't think properly. My mind was full of what a blast that size would do to John, centred on him as it was."

"That's only natural."

"For normal people, yes, but not for me." Lestrade kept his reaction internal. It seemed like a good sign to him that Sherlock was reacting to things the way normal people did, but he could see that Sherlock wouldn't agree. Lestrade was both honored and appalled to be the receiver of these confidences. Sherlock seemed to need to talk about this, and Lestrade wasn't about to cut him off. In a deadpan voice, he said, "And then he started making John say stupid, ridiculous things, and I couldn't bear it. I told him to stop. I showed that it upset me, gave Moriarty a handle.

"He already knew, Sherlock, or he wouldn't have done it."

Sherlock's jaw clenched and he looked away. "What do I do? The mere fact that I care is putting John in danger, but knowing that doesn't make me not care, nor would it help if it did. If I publicly announced that I don't like John anymore, it's not as if Moriarty would believe it."

"Not to mention it would piss John off."

"I wouldn't care about that if it would keep him safe," Sherlock retorted.

"The eagle has landed," Lestrade muttered. He'd told John that he thought Sherlock a great man with the potential to be a good one. It looked like that might be coming sooner than he'd ever anticipated.

"What?" Sherlock demanded.

"Nothing," Lestrade said hurriedly. "Tell me exactly what happened, start to finish. Leave nothing out."

Sherlock pursed his lips, and Lestrade prepared himself for a long description that would undoubtedly include things as minimal as irritating itches and pebbles underfoot. Before he could speak, however, the door opened to admit Dr. Sarah Sawyer. She glanced around the room, then focused on Sherlock. "Where's John?" she asked.

Sherlock gave her an impatient glance, clearly irritated to have his thoughts interrupted. "Room 111, but he's asleep."

"No, he's not," Sarah replied, and Sherlock's attention was abruptly riveted. "That room doesn't even look like it's in use. What's going –"

Sherlock abruptly took off across the hospital room, disappearing through the swinging door. Lestrade sat frozen for a moment, then he followed after, cursing.

* * *

_Author's note: You can blame the cliffhanger (in both stories) on Calliope. She neglected to tell either of us that The Great Game ended in a cliffhanger. Yes, we are holding a grudge. Series two can't come soon enough. Now, quit reading and REVIEW! We shall be posting in tandem hence forward, btw._

_P.S. For those of you who read our Supernatural fanfic, we are both still actively working on our stories. Do not panic!_


	2. Chapter 2

_Authors' Note: There is bound to be considerably less parallelism here on in. We will continue to write together, and we will continue to post in tandem, though you will undoubtedly notice startlingly familiar ideas bouncing back and forth between the stories from chapter to chapter. Flatmates of more than fifteen years do grow to think somewhat alike. As always, reviews are love, so please let us know what you think._

**Chapter 2**

John woke up when he felt the IV tubes move. He glanced muzzily up at the tech who was injecting fluid into the port on the IV that was closest to his arm. He wondered what it was. In the usual way, all of the drugs he needed would be in the drips. "Hullo," he said. "What's that?"

The man ignored John, withdrew the syringe and began shifting the machine that controlled John's drips from the stand by the bed to one attached to a wheelchair. As he turned, John abruptly recognized him. Adrenaline surged, and, even knowing it almost had to be too late, he snatched at his IV. A hand from the other side of John's body seized his wrist in a bruising grip. He looked up and swallowed convulsively. Both of the men who had hustled him to a van for his visit to Moriarty. All things considered, he preferred Mycroft's method of abduction. Fewer bruises and a prettier guard.

"Can't let you hurt yourself, John." With what seemed to be an unusual amount of effort, John wrenched his head forward to stare at the man at the foot of the bed. Moriarty looked down at him from the spot Mycroft had occupied not long ago, hands in his pockets, a slight grin on his face. He was dressed as 'Jim from IT,' so evidently Sherlock had failed thus far to mention that Molly's pseudo-boyfriend and the mad bomber were one and the same. "I must have you in prime condition," he caroled with that peculiar lilting intonation he affected. His gaze raked across John's body, taking in the cast and other bandages. "Or at least as prime as it gets under the circumstances."

"What for?" Those were the words John intended to speak, but his mouth felt mushy and his tongue wouldn't work properly. They came out an incomprehensible mumble.

"Sorry, John, you won't be able to communicate until the paralytic has worn off," Moriarty said in mocking apology, and John stared at him in horror. "Don't worry, it shan't affect your diaphragm. Your death won't serve me." He smiled, his eyes coldly amused. "At least not yet."

The 'consulting criminal' nodded, which was apparently a signal. The two bullies scooped John out of the bed and deposited him in the wheelchair, careful of his tubes. John couldn't do a thing to stop them. Despite the apparent care with which they handled him, John felt the stitches on his leg pull and discovered others on his belly he'd been previously unaware of. His pain meds didn't seem to be up to movement. Laying about was fine, but the jostling awoke aches and pains.

With what amounted to artistic fussiness, Moriarty carefully arranged John in the chair, his chin resting on his chest, head tilted slightly, eyes downcast. Anyone seeing him would assume he was asleep. Whilst Moriarty did that, his associates moved rapidly about the room, doing God only knew what. Then one of the thugs pushed the chair out of the room, leaving their boss behind. John had the impression he was heading for the computer, with what intent, John couldn't guess. He could only hope that someone would question them on their way out. Unfortunately, the solitary person they passed by fell in behind them, or so John gathered when the girl hurried ahead to open the final door for them. She was dressed as a nursing assistant, but she accompanied them out of the hospital and helped the others get him shifted into a nearby van. The interior had clearly been custom fitted for the purpose of conveying a patient in need of medical care, and the installations looked long past new. The drips machine fit neatly into a bracket that jutted out over a bunk that was fixed along one side of the van. They transferred him from the chair to the bunk and strapped him in. The young woman made sure all his tubes were properly disposed and made a couple of changes to the computer controlling the drips. Once she was satisfied, she got out again and ran the door shut. John, perforce, stared at the unadorned metal ceiling, his field of view including the bracket with his IVs and not much else. He still didn't even know precisely what was wrong with him. He hadn't yet spoken to a doctor.

After a few moments, though, he thought he knew what at least one of the changes had been. He felt himself go a bit lightheaded, and the pains awakened by the handling receded into the background again.

He couldn't be sure how long a time had passed when both the front doors opened and the van shook. Someone slipped between the front two seats, and John was treated to a close-up view of Moriarty's face as the man bent over him. "Are we comfortable?" he asked, his voice shifting to falsetto on the last two syllables. "Blink once for yes and twice for no." John closed his eyes resolutely and didn't open them again. Moriarty let out a laugh when he realized that John was refusing to answer him, and then he settled onto the bunk just beyond John's feet, leaning against the side wall of the van as it started up and pulled away from the kerb. John couldn't actually see him, but he could deduce the man's position from the way his weight affected the surface of the bunk. A hand landed on his bare feet, and John felt a flutter of unease in his gut. Moriarty actually began to rub John's foot in a bizarre sort of massaging motion. "How do you suppose Sherlock is going to react when he realizes I've got you?" he asked.

John already had images in his head. Sherlock had seemed nearly hysterical during those last moments John could remember at the pool, right before the world turned to chaos, pain and darkness. In the months since he had met Sherlock, John had seen him manic, he'd seen him nearly immobile, but he'd never seen him giddy for any reason. Nevertheless, there was no other way to describe Sherlock's behavior after Moriarty had left, after he'd ripped the coat and vest off John and reassured himself that Moriarty had indeed gone. He'd also seen Sherlock face seemingly insurmountable problems with a laugh and a shrug that concealed a deeper obsession. Something like this . . . he'd follow like Gollum following the ring, not for John's sake, but for the sake of his pride. Not that he wouldn't be concerned about John on some level – it had been relief that had caused the giddiness, after all – but the pursuit of the problem always mattered more to him than the victim.

On the other hand, when he got that focused, he tended to be terribly reckless. John knew that he, himself, was dead, but the last thing he wanted was for Sherlock to die as well. There was no way Moriarty was expending this much energy without the intent to guarantee that when Sherlock finally found him, John would be thoroughly – and probably brutally – dead. What worried him was what Sherlock would then risk to bring Moriarty down.

"This game will be even better than the last," Moriarty said in his ridiculous singsong, squeezing John's foot a bit too hard. He felt fingernails digging into his flesh. "And you'll have a front row seat for it, Johnny boy." He loomed up over John again. "Aren't you excited?" he demanded, tweaking John's nose. Laughing with something that sounded like delight, he settled back down and continued petting John's feet. John's gut twisted at the loathsome touch. He stared at the ceiling, coping because he had no other choice.

* * *

Sherlock slammed the door to room 111 open and stared through it. Lestrade was faintly amused by the way the hospital robe flung out, mimicking that long coat that Sherlock always wore. It was fortunate he _was_ wearing a robe, because Lestrade imagined that a number of things would be hanging out in the breeze otherwise.

"He's gone," Sherlock said, his voice low and harsh.

A muttered curse behind Lestrade drew his attention back to Dr. Sawyer, who had followed them out of Sherlock's room and was staring at them in consternation. "What's going on?" she demanded. "I just said he –"

Sherlock whirled and glared at her. "Someone's just walked into the hospital, snatched John up and carried him away." He looked back into John's room, his voice going low and angry. "How is that possible?" He backed out of the doorway and Lestrade took his place, glancing around at the empty room. This didn't look like he'd been taken for a procedure or some such. It looked as though the room was awaiting occupancy. "Where are Mycroft's idiots?" Sherlock demanded of the air, looking about.

"Who is Mycroft?" Dr. Sawyer asked behind him. "What the bloody hell has happened, Sherlock?" Predictably, Sherlock made no response. Lestrade walked over and, pulling a crime scene glove out of his pocket, pressed the call button on the bed.

A scream from the passage made him whirl and dash out of the room again. A middle-aged woman staggered backwards from a linen cupboard down the corridor, staring into it. Sherlock ran up to look in and his eyes narrowed in anger. "Damn them, and damn Mycroft for sending them!" He turned and strode away. "Where's my sodding phone?"

Lestrade already had his in his hand, calling DS Sally Donovan. He'd left her in the lobby so as to avoid her getting up the back of either John or Sherlock. The woman who'd screamed was talking hysterically to Dr. Sawyer, who appeared to be trying to soothe her. Lestrade strode over to look inside himself. At that moment, Sally answered. "Donovan," she announced, as always sounding as if she were challenging the world.

His voice failed him briefly, but then he cleared his throat. "Get a team out here immediately."

"What for?" she demanded, adding sarcastically, "Has Sherlock finally gone off his nob?"

"John Watson has been abducted and there are two women and one man dead in a linen cupboard," Lestrade said succinctly. "There may be others for all I know."

"I'll get them on their way," Donovan replied, abruptly all business. "Where's Sherlock?"

"Ten feet away from me, on the phone with his brother."

"Do you think it's the bomber?" she asked. "That Moriarty?"

"Who the hell else could it be?" Lestrade replied irritably and snapped his phone shut.

"They're dead," Sherlock said emphatically into his phone, enunciating very clearly. "Or at least three of them are. How many did you leave?" He listened, and his eyes narrowed to mere slits. "Very clever." He went silent again, but Lestrade could sense him seething. "No, Mycroft, it's not that. You won't tell me?" He ground his teeth audibly. "Very well. Now we won't know how many bodies to look for." He punched the key to end the call and glowered over at Lestrade. "My charming brother set guards to watch us, but he refuses to tell me how many. In fact, he's tried to convince me that those are not his people." He rolled his eyes.

"They could be staff, I suppose," Lestrade said.

"No," Sherlock said shortly. When Lestrade gave him a questioning look, he sighed deeply and strode over to the doorway once again. "Look at those shoes," he said, pointing at the woman on the bottom of the pile. "Hospital staff don't, as a rule, wear trainers. They wear ugly shoes designed for long term standing, not shoes meant to aid in running. Besides, I've seen them all a dozen times or more. Mycroft has a limited pool of people to choose from, and they're not very imaginative in terms of disguise." He turned abruptly away from the door, flinging his arms wide before beginning to pace in a manic circle. "This is a waste of time. They won't have left any evidence."

"There's almost certain to be something, Sherlock," Lestrade put in, but the younger man spoke over the top of him.

"Not useful evidence!" he retorted. "We need to locate Moriarty."

"I've told you, we're tracing every lead we can. Actually, if you could sit down with a sketch artist, it would be a great help."

Sherlock stopped dead and stared at him. "Why would you need a sketch? Just get a photo from the security cameras at Barts." He shook his head. "Good God, why hasn't that been done yet?"

"Sherlock, I don't know what you're talking about. You saw him at Barts?"

"He came in and played a game with us," Sherlock replied. His eyes widened. "Where are my clothes?" He nearly ran back into his room and began searching through cupboards.

"They're in evidence, Sherlock. You were blown up."

Sherlock whirled, his robe flaring out, gazing intently at Lestrade. "There might be a phone number in my coat pocket. I'm not actually sure what I did with it. At the time I thought he was just some gay computer technician playing around with Molly Hooper, so I mightn't have kept it."

"He fooled you?" Lestrade asked, a little startled.

"He built more than one layer of identity into his appearance. I saw past the top, but didn't look deeper. Damn it." He grabbed his phone again and made another call. "Mrs. Hudson. Bring me some clothes, would you? The police took mine." He paused for a moment. "I don't know. Evidence or something. It doesn't matter. I must be going, and I haven't any clothes." Whatever she said must have satisfied him, because he hung up.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"I don't know yet. I presume I'll be sent somewhere. That's his game, isn't it? Sending me on little quests?" He glanced around as though looking for something. "I need a list of the children in the school Carl Powers attended for the five years previous to his year and the five years after. We looked at the boys in his year, but there must be something there. He said that Carl laughed at him, that that's why he killed him, to stop him laughing."

"Younger makes more sense, I'd think, though how many kids of nine or ten are likely to know about clostridium botulinum?"

"Why younger?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head.

"An older boy would be more likely to ignore a younger boy laughing, but a younger boy might have to seek revenge in an indirect way." Lestrade noticed a thoughtful look on Sherlock's face, but he didn't ask. He didn't doubt that Sherlock's youth had been a difficult one. He made a call requesting the information and turned around to find Sgt. Donovan walking into the room.

"So, what's happened?"

"We don't know, precisely," Sherlock retorted. "Have you been in his room?"

"There's not the slightest bit of evidence in there, freak," she replied, and Lestrade rolled his eyes at her persistent name-calling. A detective of her stature should be above that, and shouldn't find the unpaid nature of Sherlock's help a detriment to the man's character.

"Is there a team working?" he asked, letting a bit of reproof creep into his voice.

"Yes, sir," she said, with a faint hint of resentment. He knew she believed that he was holding her back, but until she learned a little flexibility, her career would remain stalled. He knew that meant he was stuck with her for the long term, but for the life of him, he couldn't bring himself to give her better reviews to get her out of his hair sooner. "But the sheer number of fingerprints to be found in a hospital room guarantees that it will be hours before we have any useful results, assuming there are any to be found."

"There won't be," Sherlock replied. "They'll have worn gloves. It's not as if anyone would notice that in a hospital."

"Then they'll have smudged the other fingerprints," Donovan retorted. "There will be signs that someone was there."

"Half the people in hospital wear gloves," Sherlock snapped. "There will be far more smudges than fingerprints." His phone buzzed, and he yanked it out of the pocket of his robe with alacrity. His expression soured as he looked at the display. He silenced it and shoved it back in his pocket.

"Something wrong?" Lestrade asked.

"It's only my brother," Sherlock groused. He let out an explosive sigh. "What does he _want_?"

"You could answer it and find out," Donovan said sarcastically.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I don't mean my brother, Sally," he said, a heavy shading of disdain on the sergeant's name. "I mean _Moriarty_." He paced over to the window and stared out. "I would have thought he'd have contacted me by now." Lestrade thought privately that it was likely the bastard was banking on this exact reaction. Sounding almost pathetic, Sherlock continued, "How can I do what he wants from me if I don't know what it is?"

"Maybe he just wanted to kill him," Donovan suggested.

Sherlock's shoulders went rigid, and Lestrade shot his colleague a dark look. Before he could speak, though, Sherlock whirled. "Completely illogical," he snapped. "If he'd wanted to kill him, he needn't have taken him out of the hospital. On what are you basing your deductions?"

Donovan shrugged. "He could want to pose him, do something brutal he wouldn't have time for here," she said. "Make it a 'special experience.'" Though he thought it could have been phrased a little less bluntly, Lestrade had to admit she had a point. He certainly hoped it wasn't that. Not only did he like Dr. Watson, but if his present reaction was anything to judge by, Sherlock would come unhinged if it came to that.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at Donovan. "And you call me 'freak,'" he said dryly.

Donovan glared at him. "It happens," she said. "You know it does."

Lestrade could see this devolving into a petty squabble, largely based on Sherlock's emotional denial. He cast about for a way to turn the subject and recalled something Sherlock had said earlier. "You told me you'd seen him in Barts. Can you give me the rough time?"

Sherlock whirled. "Ask Molly Hooper. He called himself Jim. From IT."

"Jim from IT?" Donovan repeated. "Molly Hooper? Are you talking about James Morrison?"

"Moriarty!" Sherlock corrected waspishly. "Get it right."

"No, Molly Hooper from Barts reported her boyfriend missing late last night, one James Morrison from the IT department there. She said she'd called you and John both, but that you weren't answering your phones."

"This Molly Hooper filed a missing person's report?" Lestrade shook his head. "Last night?"

"Just after midnight," Donovan said. "Dimmock is on it."

"Oh, good," Sherlock snarled. "The idiot is searching for the missing boyfriend." Donovan glowered at him, and Sherlock began speaking in a tone that suggested his listeners were retarded three-year-olds. "James Morrison is Jim Moriarty. One and the same. He was playing a game, getting information. He came to see me while I was looking over Carl Powers' shoes. Pretended to be a gay man using a straight girl to get him close to someone he really wanted. Left me his number." His voice sharpened as he turned to Lestrade. "Have they found it?"

"They haven't called, so I'm guessing the answer is no. Are you sure it was in your coat?"

"No," Sherlock growled. "I don't remember what I did with it. It didn't matter. I was focused on the shoes. It was only a moment later when I realized whose they were." He turned on Lestrade, gazing at him intently. "Where's the phone . . . the pink phone? Was it found in the rubble?"

"It was," Lestrade said. "Utterly destroyed. He won't be calling on that again."

"Damn!" Sherlock growled. He slammed a fist into the wall next to the window.

"What, upset because you don't have a puzzle to figure out?" Donovan asked, oozing with false sympathy.

Lestrade thought he really needed to have a word with her, but not here and not now. A man might get away with putting a word in someone's ear in front of John, but not in front of Sherlock. John would pretend not to have heard or seen, Sherlock would mention it with colour commentary at regular intervals.

He didn't expect Sherlock to respond to Donovan's rudeness, but, still facing the window, head lowered and body rigid with tension, Sherlock said, "Yes." Donovan half-grinned with uncertain triumph, but then Sherlock turned to her and spoke in a low intense voice that wiped the smile off her face. "If I had a puzzle to solve it would mean that I have a way to retrieve John." His gaze became more general. "I _need _Moriarty to be playing a game, because with no game, there can be no prize."

"Prize?" Sally repeated. "Charming way to describe your 'colleague.'"

Sherlock gave her a contemptuous look. "It's how Moriarty seems to think," he said with exaggerated patience. "He's already described John as my pet." He shook his head and started forward. "I need a look at the room." Lestrade backed out of the way, then followed him. Sherlock strode in and stopped at the foot of the bed. "All right, everybody out!"

Carl Anderson stood up from behind the head of the bed. "What? Get him out of here!"

"Carl –" Lestrade started, but the forensic tech cut him off.

"He's too close to this. He'll ruin the integrity of the evidence just by being here."

"He was in here earlier, Anderson," Lestrade said. "Both before and after Dr. Watson went missing."

"I don't care. He needs to go away."

"What do you think you're going to find?" Sherlock demanded. "I very much doubt anyone's left a handy monogrammed handkerchief, that would be far too Hercule Poirot."

Anderson turned towards Lestrade. "Get him out," he demanded.

"Anderson!" Lestrade growled. If only the idiot weren't so damned jealous of Sherlock's abilities, things would go a deal more smoothly. Sherlock's attitude didn't help matters any, and it was a bit difficult to take him seriously at the moment, what with his hairy legs visible beneath the hem of his hospital gown. Lestrade tried to convey his understanding of Anderson's issues with Sherlock in his tone. "Just let him have a go."

After a moment of irritated silence, Anderson waved his assistants out and left the room. Pulling on gloves, Sherlock began to examine the room minutely. Lestrade stood back and watched, not sure what Sherlock was seeing. He didn't have any of his usual tools, they'd been in his clothes and were therefore in evidence, but he made do, even if he did look faintly ridiculous in the hospital gown and robe. It wasn't until Lestrade saw Sherlock bending to look under the bed that he noticed a crimson trickle down the back of the younger man's leg. "Sherlock, you're bleeding."

"Don't be ridiculous."

Lestrade shook his head and dug in his pocket for a tissue, moving forward to catch the blood before it dripped to the floor. "You are bleeding, Sherlock," he said. "Come along out, we need to get your doctor."

"Lestrade." Sherlock's intent tone caught Lestrade's attention firmly, as did the sudden tension in the other man's spine. "I think you had best get all your people out of here."

Rolling his eyes, Lestrade said, "They're already out, Sherlock."

"No, I mean a bit farther. And you might want to send for the bomb squad."

Lestrade bent a bit more himself to peer under the bed. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the flashing lights and molded lumps of explosive. "Bloody hell." He rose and walked to the door. "Donovan?" She looked up. "Evacuate the hospital and get the bomb squad down here immediately."

"Bomb squad?" Anderson repeated. "What? There's no bomb in there."

"There is," Lestrade said. "I've seen it. Move!" Everyone got moving, and Lestrade turned back into the hospital room. Sherlock was off the floor and tapping away madly on the computer. "What are you doing? We need to go."

"There's something here," Sherlock said. "I know there is. John's records are gone, which means he messed about with the computer. There's got to be a message or some clue here, something I've got to find before the bomb goes off."

"Has it a timer?"

"I don't think it's going to be set off by a sniper," Sherlock retorted, gesturing around at the windowless nature of the room. "It could be on a remote, but there are far too many electrical signals in a hospital. He'd risk it being set off at the wrong time by somebody's pacemaker."

Lestrade went on his back and slid under the bed to get a better look at the device. There was a click when his face came level with it, and a flat screen lit up. _1:00:00_ which immediately shifted to _59:59, 59:58_ and Lestrade realized he was looking a a countdown.

"Hullo!" exclaimed a voice from the bomb. "How disappointing. You're not Sherlock. Is he there?"

"Sherlock's away from home at the moment," Lestrade said flatly. "What do you want?" Hands seized him by the legs and yanked him out from under the bed.

Before he could even sit up, Sherlock had gathered up his robe – and whatever diginity it left him – and had fallen flat on his back, shoving with his feet to get himself under the bomb. A pleased voice spoke from under the bed. "Ahh, Sherlock. How nice to see you again."

"Moriarty," Sherlock said, his voice wholly devoid of emotion. "Where is John?"

"Your pet is perfectly safe, Sherlock, and will remain so for as long as both you and he behave yourselves." Moriarty made a dissatisfied sound. "He doesn't seem to like stroking. How is it you reward him?"

Lestrade had turned on his side to peer across at Sherlock, so he saw the expression of helpless rage cross the other man's face. "What do you want of me?"

"Have you found the puzzle I left you?"

"I was looking."

"Well, then, go back to looking. If you find it before the timer finishes, the bomb won't go off. Otherwise . . . boom boom."

Sherlock instantly slid out from under the bed and returned to the computer. Lestrade shook his head. "Surely we can take that computer out of here for you to work on," he said, nodding towards the records machine Sherlock was working at. "We don't have to –"

"I don't think so," the voice from under the bed said, the pitch varying oddly from low to high in a singsong. "For every minute that I can't see or hear at least one of you, ten minutes will be shaved off the clock." Sherlock didn't even turn, but Lestrade rolled over onto his back and shoved his way back under the bed. "Good boy," Moriarty said in an approving tone that made Lestrade's skin crawl. "Sherlock, if you both live, be sure this one gets a biscuit. He's most obedient."

Lestrade wanted to talk back to the bastard, but he knew without being told that it would be unwise to the point of idiocy to do so.

Feet in the corridor made him stiffen. "Don't tell me," Moriarty said, "you've sent for the bomb squad."

"Of course I sent for the bomb squad."

"Send them away or they'll be trying to separate the bits of you from the bits of Sherlock, and I won't have any reason whatsoever to keep poor John alive."

"Lestrade?" Sherlock murmured, sounding alarmed and slightly pleading. His voice was very quiet, as if he were trying not to be heard by Moriarty.

"I'll have to get out from under here to give them instructions," Lestrade said to the bomb.

"I give you dispensation," Moriarty replied with an airy generosity that made Lestrade grind his teeth. "But one of you had better be back within ninety seconds."

"Right." Lestrade shimmied out from under and hurried to the door to greet the bomb squad. "The bomber can see and hear everything that goes on in this room, and he's said that if you all come in, he will immediately detonate the bomb. Evacuate the building."

"Then you and him had better come out, sir."

"He'll also detonate if either of us leaves," Lestrade said. "Go."

They backed out and and Lestrade knew they'd have twenty minutes at most before they had guests again unless he could explain more clearly. Sliding back under the bed, he began to type quickly on his phone, texting Donovan because he knew she was present and that her connection to both Sherlock and Lestrade would get her instant attention from whomever they sent to overlook this fiasco. MORIARTY SET BOMB UNDER BED. PUZZLE FOR SH. He glanced at the timer in front of his eyes. 52 MINS LEFT. He sent the text and began typing again. IF SH OR I LEAVE, BOOM. IF SQUAD COMES IN, BOOM. IF SH FAILS PUZZLE, BOOM. EVACUATE. After sending that text, he flopped his head back on the floor.

Now he just had to count on Sherlock solving the puzzle in time because there was no way in hell he was going to be able to help him.


	3. Chapter 3

_Authors' Note: Despite a dreadful disease ravaging our household (also known as the really annoying case of multi-person seasonal head congestion) we have persevered to write yet another chapter each. Again we wrote largely independently, again we wound up with interesting and unexpected parallels. _

_Another parallel between our lives and those of our characters has come to mind. John is methodical, he plans, he works things out in advance and then he does them (except when Sherlock drags him off before he gets the chance). Catslyn fully plots her stories and has the whole chapter written in her head before she starts. Sherlock is an impulsive fellow who changes his mind as new ideas pop into his head, and while he can predict events that might be coming in the future, he doesn't generally plan that far in advance. Eideann writes by the seat of her pants, making it up as she goes. She knows something about the destination, but the route is ever changing._

_Or, we could just be overthinking this._

_Hmmmm . . ._

_Anyway, enjoy. And remember, reviews are love._

* * *

**Chapter 3**

John had no external way to judge the passage of time for the first while as they traveled. He could count, he could guess at the turns they were making, but none of it had any real basis in fact. Sherlock could probably have given him a map reference.

At a rough guess, it was forty minutes after they'd started moving when a large, bright light came up to John's left. Forty minutes of traveling to God knew where. Forty minutes of helpless immobility. Forty minutes of Moriarty playing with John's bare feet and calves for whatever insane reason.

Down by John's feet, Moriarty sat forward eagerly, leaning towards that light. "Hullo," he said. "How disappointing. You're not Sherlock. Is he there?"

Lestrade's voice spoke, and John wondered wildly what was going on. As if reading his mind, Moriarty reached up his body and turned his head so that he was facing the door. A large screen had been hung there. It showed two images, one superimposed on the other. Lestrade's face and a countdown. If it had started at the moment the light came up, it appeared to be set for an hour. John failed utterly to take in what Lestrade said, but the man was whipped out of sight a moment later to be replaced almost instantly by Sherlock. John's flatmate looked manic under a valiant attempt at a flat affect. Moriarty relaxed back to his seated position, his hand drawing all the way down John's body.

The madman greeted Sherlock warmly, as though they were old friends. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Moriarty. Where is John?"

"Your pet is perfectly safe, Sherlock, and will remain so for as long as both you and he behave yourselves." Wiggling John's toes with his hand, Moriarty tsked. "He doesn't seem to like stroking. How is it you reward him?"

A wave of helpless fury swept John, and he saw the rage in Sherlock's eyes. "What do you want of me?" Sherlock demanded, and John wanted to tell him to shut up and stop playing the game. He needed to let it go.

"Have you found the puzzle I left you?" Moriarty asked, making John wish even harder that he could interject himself into this confrontation. For once Sherlock needed to fjust ignore a puzzle and get on with catching Moriarty.

"I was looking."

"Well, then, go back to looking," Moriarty said, lifting John's legs and sliding beneath them. It wasn't comfortable for more reasons than the obvious. It put his back at a very odd angle, pulling at muscles already strained from the explosion. "If you find it before the timer finishes, the bomb won't go off. Otherwise . . . boom boom." He knocked on John's cast with each _boom_.

Bomb? Another bloody bomb? So that was what the countdown was for. Now they had fifty-four minutes. John wanted to call Sherlock back as he slid away. The microphone on this camera had to be really strong, because they could hear Lestrade suggesting that they take the computer and leave, a plan John wholeheartedly supported.

"I don't think so," Moriarty sang, and John closed his eyes. Of course. Moriarty wouldn't want to miss a minute of his game, would he? "For every minute that I can't see or hear at least one of you, ten minutes will be shaved off the clock." Within seconds, Lestrade appeared before the camera again, sort of dragging himself into position. The camera appeared to be very close to the floor, pointing downwards. John couldn't figure it out. Where was the ruddy thing?

John listened and watched while Moriarty taunted Lestrade and then forced him to send the bomb squad away. After that there was a long silence. John could see Lestrade texting and reading texts for awhile, but apart from periodic mutterings and grunts, Sherlock might as well not have been there.

Abruptly, his voice rose above a mutter. "Hannah Walter!" he said. John heard a click by his feet and the countdown froze with fourteen minutes and thirty-eight seconds on the clock. Unusual for Sherlock. He seemed to want to take up the time till the very end of his limit, whether to show off or to extend his opportunity to investigate other leads seemed a moot point.

"Very good, Sherlock," Moriarty murmured too quietly for the microphone to pick up.

"Hannah Walter?" Lestrade repeated, his brows knitting. "Who is Hannah Walter?" His eyes were on his phone, so he hadn't yet noticed the halted countdown.

"No one," Sherlock said. "Hannah Walter stands for John."

Lestrade craned his head sideways, as though trying to see what Sherlock was looking at. "How do you know?"

"Well, for one thing, she was admitted to the hospital with full vital statistics shortly after John was removed," Sherlock said. "For another, she was born on John's birthday, but five hundred years earlier."

"That could be a typo."

"Idiot," Moriarty muttered.

Sherlock was continuing his explanation. "Hannah – Grace of God, John – God is gracious. Watson – Walter's son. It fits, Lestrade. It fits."

"Oh, very well," Lestrade said, looking impatient. He turned his head so that he was looking up again and said, "Bloody hell, you're right. The timer's stopped."

"Finally," Moriarty said, his voice sharp and loud this time. His hand, which had been idly stroking John's foot, suddenly gripped hard, nails biting painfully into the sole. John couldn't move, couldn't react beyond a muffled and involuntary sound of protest. "Now get out of there, you fool, and let Sherlock come back."

John saw Lestrade's eyes widen, and then he was sliding out of view. Sherlock was abruptly there again, gazing intently up at the screen. John wondered what he could see. "What now?"

"You've found the puzzle, sexy," Moriarty said gaily. "Now, if you ever want to see Johnny here again, and I know you do, solve it. The faster you work, the less time I have to play with your toy."

"I want to speak to John," Sherlock said firmly.

"Speak all you want," Moriarty replied. "If you're expecting a response, though, you'll be disappointed."

"I want to hear John's voice," Sherlock growled.

"Proof of life, eh?" Moriarty said. "That's a bit of a problem just now. See, he's paralyzed. I think it might be wearing off a bit, thought. Let's see if I can get him to make a noise."

Sudden pressure on the stitches on John's leg rocketed past the pain meds he was still getting from his IVs. His voice came out in an uncontrolled moan, a truly humiliating sound.

"Stop, stop!" Sherlock exclaime urgently. The pressure ceased. "So, I'm to solve a puzzle?" Sherlock asked. "But you're not giving me a deadline."

"No, take all the time you want," Moriarty said. "However long you think Johnny can stand my company." John heard another click, and Sherlock's eyes went wide, the pupils dilating to an enormous extent. Then the screen went completely blank and black, turning into a mirror. Moriarty met John's eyes in that mirror and smiled. He turned and lifted the hem of John's hospital gown to peer at the stitches he'd abused earlier. "Doesn't look like I did any damage," he said. His eyes met John's again. "I do so want this game to last," he added with a fervor that made John's flesh creep.

* * *

Sherlock stared straight up at the now blank screen of the bomb, frozen with fury and another emotion, one entirely unfamiliar to him. It had something in common with anticipation. His gut had that feeling of having no bottom, but there was nothing whatsoever pleasant about this sensation. He felt almost queasy. His heart was beating very hard, thumping in his chest, which could be due to his anger, but it was also beating quite rapidly, which he did not associate with feelings of anger. His mouth had gone dry. Correlating the symptoms in his mind, he was startled to realise that what he felt was fear. He didn't like it.

For one brief second, he had seen an image that would haunt him until he could find his flatmate and bring him back to safety. John lay on his back, his head turned towards the camera, but his body had an unnatural stillness to it, especially given that his legs appeared to be lying across Moriarty's lap, Moriarty's hand resting just above the stitches on John's left leg, giving mute evidence of just how that sound had been forced out of him. Moriarty had waved coyly, and then the image had cut off.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me? Sherlock!" From the tone of his voice and his words, Sherlock gathered that Lestrade had been attempting to get him to respond for some time. Taking a deep breath to give himself time to mask his emotions, he slid out from under the bed and stood up. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"He showed me a picture of John," Sherlock said, and his voice remained steady and calm. "You heard him, I presume."

"Yes, the game this time is to fetch John back from him, but what can he hope to gain from that?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said. "I suspect I'll have rather more information once I solve the puzzle he left me."

"What's the puzzle?"

"Hannah Walter," Sherlock said impatiently, striding back to the computer.

"We have to get out of here, Sherlock," Lestrade said, plucking at his arm. "The bomb squad is coming in and –"

"I must look through her records," Sherlock retorted, shaking his arm free of the other man's grip. "And I don't know that they're available on any other machine. If we move this one, it will have to be unplugged from the network and the wall, and I don't want to risk that either."

"Sherlock –"

"Go then!" Sherlock growled. "Your babble is distracting me." A sudden thought occurred to him. "Where's my phone?" he demanded.

"Your phone? I – I don't know exactly. I –"

"Then give me yours." Sherlock put his hand out and turned when no phone arrived in it. "Now!"

Lestrade pulled his mobile off his belt. "What do you need my phone for?"

Sherlock ignored the stupid question and seized the phone, turning back to the computer.

"I need that!" Lestrade protested.

"Then find mine." Sherlock focused on the data in front of him. Hannah Walter . . . in for St. Anthony's Fire. That rang a bell in his mind. France. Something about France. He found the reference quickly despite the lumbering slowness of Lestrade's phone. Pont Saint Esprit, a village in France that suffered a mass poisoning in the fifties. St. Anthony's Fire was only the most likely of many causes that had been suggested, including illicit experimentation by the CIA. So, Hannah Walter was suffering from ergot poisoning, but St. Anthony's Fire was the way they'd referred to ergot poisoning in the Middle Ages, which matched her birth year of 1472 well enough. There were other diseases which had fallen under that mantle in those days, erysipelas for one, but the symptoms reported matched ergotism best. Convulsions, vomiting, gangrene in the toes and fingers, hallucinations.

Where did that lead him? He stored the question away in his mind and looked at other details in the file. Referring physician, Dr. H.S. Harmsworth. He didn't appear on the registry of physicians currently acting in Britain. He checked the U.S. and found two dentists and a dermatologist. Not a person then, but another clue. Sherlock widened his search away from the medical profession and came up with a number of options, from a professor of physics in Edinburgh to a deceased newspaper baron who was, literally, a Baron. How did any of these persons connect with a medieval disease?

"He's got to leave." The words broke in on Sherlock's ruminations, and he hunched his shoulders, trying to focus.

"He's working on a clue that may not exist anywhere else." That was Lestrade. Sherlock appreciated his efforts, but couldn't they occur across the room where they wouldn't disturb him?

"I'm not having civilians in here while we move a bomb."

"You said it's a very stable explosive," Lestrade said. "Leave him."

They moved further away at that point, and after a bit Sherlock was vaguely aware of barriers being put in place behind him. They baffled the sound of the men talking, which helped his concentration enormously. He didn't usually have this trouble, but every time he was distracted, he'd get that image of John in his head, still in his hospital gown, trapped, with Moriarty touching him.

He ran through lists of vital and not so vital statistics on all of the H.S. Harmsworths he'd turned up. Reams of useless data flowed though his mind and out again, and then he spotted it. Viscount Harold Sidney Harmsworth, later the 1st Baron Harmsworth, purchased the freehold for the site of Bethlem Royal Hospital in Southwark in 1930. In previous centuries, Bethlem Royal was more commonly known as Bedlam, and it was the most notorious psychiatric hospital in the world with a history dating back more than 750 years. In fact, Bethlem Hospital was existent and taking psychiatric patients at the time of the fictitious Hannah Walter's birth. It made an obvious place to dump a woman experiencing hallucinations and psychotic breaks. At that time, however, it was located in Bishopsgate. Sherlock shook his head. The year was to orient him to the disease, the man was to orient him to the location. He had been there before on a number of occasions. Once, people had gone there to watch the patients as an extremely peculiar and voyeuristic entertainment. Now, people went to view artifacts of the wars of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries.

John was a soldier. It fit.

He turned his attention to the list of medications the fictitious patient had been prescribed along with their dosages. None of it made the slightest sense. There was an anti-psychotic, but the dosage was insanely high, an anti-convulsant with dosage at a level that wouldn't stop a shiver, something meant to prevent acne, others, all equally out of place. He memorized the list, making notes to aid recall. The keypad on Lestrade's phone was comfortable to use, almost more comfortable than his own. Family history was blank as was medical history.

"I think I've got what I need," Sherlock said, turning around. He found Mycroft standing behind him, and they were alone in the room together. "Your people were useless and worse than useless!" he snapped.

"Three of them are dead."

"Yes, I'd say that's worse than useless. Where did the other two go?"

"They were drawn off by a plausible threat and ambushed."

"Oh, are they dead, too?" Sherlock demanded.

"No, they're in the A&E," Mycroft replied with a hint of reproach in his voice.

"John was paralysed and forced to lie across Moriarty's lap," Sherlock retorted. "He's in the hands of that bastard, and I now have to dance Moriarty's tune again to free him. Are you satisfied?" He turned. "Where are my clothes? Has Mrs. Hudson brought them?"

"They are in your room," Mycroft said. "As you should be now that you have solved the puzzle, allowing your doctor to see to –"

Ignoring his brother's prating, Sherlock strode out of room 111 and back to his own room. A shopping bag sat on the bed which he presumed contained his clothing, and his doctor stood just inside the door. Sherlock made for the bag, but the doctor started speaking. "Mr. Holmes, if you will just let me look over your stitches. I'm told you were bleeding."

"I'm fine," Sherlock replied, seizing the bag and going into the ensuite loo. Dampening a cloth, he cleaned up the dried blood on his legs. The rest of his toilet would have to wait. He dressed hastily and wished for his coat. Mrs. Hudson evidently hadn't brought it. He emerged from the loo and glared at his brother. "What do you want, Mycroft?" he asked.

"I want you to rest a bit. Reflect. Rushing out will not benefit either you or Dr. Watson."

"Staying here will benefit no one," Sherlock replied coldly. "And the combination of anxiety and boredom could endanger the hospital staff."

"You can't go alone, not in your condition."

"My heart is touched by your concern," Sherlock said, firmly repressing the unexpected twinge the word _heart _sent through him. If Moriarty was to be believed, that vile monster was touching Sherlock's heart, literally, at this moment. "But I have places to go and puzzles to solve, and you're in my way."

"Not alone," Mycroft reiterated. "I can provide you with a –"

"As if I would take one of your idiots," Sherlock growled. At that moment, Lestrade came in the door. "I have my own idiots." He leaned around Mycroft. "Lestrade, my brother insists I have a minder. You're elected."

"I'm what? I don't understand."

"It's already arranged," Mycroft said smoothly, and Sherlock glowered at him. He hated it when his brother managed to get one step ahead of him. "Your superiors have granted you detached duty to help Sherlock with this Moriarty mess."

"I know, but I rather thought Sherlock was going to help me."

Sherlock stepped around his brother. This conversation had lasted too long already. "Come along, Lestrade," he said, walking swiftly out of the room.

A moment later, the detective inspector was beside him. "Where are we going?"

"The Imperial War Museum."

"Where? Why?"

"Because that's where our next puzzle piece lies."


End file.
